


there’s no way that it’s not going there (with the way that we’re looking at each other)

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Partners to Lovers, Pre-Avengers (2012), Shameless Smut, Undercover Missions, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: "Thank God for guns," Natasha laughed, and then she hiked up the skirt of her dress to show off her thigh where her Glock was strapped in a holster. She unfastened it, slipped the gun in the top drawer of the nightstand by her side of the bed.Clint couldn't look away from the slice of upper thigh she'd uncovered. He knew how her thighs felt wrapped around him when she beat him in the gym, trapping him there where she could just snap his neck with the sheer strength of her muscles if she wanted to. Now he wondered what it would be like, to run his hands up and down her bare legs, to feel the quiver in her thighs as he aimed higher and higher...--Clint and Natasha go undercover as a married couple. There's a red dress, and guns fastened to garters, and Clint is losing his mind.Pre-Avengers.





	there’s no way that it’s not going there (with the way that we’re looking at each other)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written these two in, like, five years, maybe?? but recent events made it mandatory for me to write smut for these two because they deserve to be happy and have nice orgasms, and we as a fandom deserve that also.
> 
> Title from Lauv ft. Julia Michaels's "There's No Way."

Clint had lost count of the number of times he'd been shot at or stabbed, or had a rib cracked or broken, throughout his time at the circus and in the army, and lately, as an agent at a top-secret government agency. Working with S.H.I.E.L.D. was no picnic but it had its perks, Clint reckoned, as he leaned his elbow against the bar, martini in hand, and enjoyed the show his partner was putting on for their mark - and maybe _just a little_ for _his_ benefit, if Clint allowed himself to think such thoughts.

He did _not_ , of course, because he didn't have a death wish, but it didn't stop him from enjoying the sight of Natasha in her natural habitat. She was an expert at basically everything - a fact that she liked rubbing in his face _a lot_ , and that he couldn't really bring himself to begrudge her since it was _true_ \- but _this_ was what she did best, effortlessly slipping into whoever it was that people wanted her to be, expected to see, Natasha playing the part of the wolf masquerading as Little Red Riding Hood as she strolled amongst the lambs unsuspected, welcomed with open arms, even. He couldn't help but be impressed.

And, well - he was only a man, after all. There was no point pretending that her little show wasn't affecting him, _too_.

Tonight, she was the charming eye-candy, the frivolous wife who laughed a tad too high and who'd had one flute of champagne too many. Natasha was also wearing one of those dresses that cost more than what he earned in a year, courtesy of a substantial opening in budget that had been made around the time Director Fury had realized the damage Natasha Romanoff could do wearing designer clothes and heels only. The red gown looked almost demure at the front as the dip at her cleavage only hinted at the perfect curves that laid beneath, the fabric hitting just below her knees, but the exposed back was the real attraction. Her hair was styled in an updo with a few lost curls escaping the bun, and from where he observed the scene Clint had a view of what looked like miles of porcelain skin, the contrast with her flaming red hair and scarlet dress making it difficult to focus on anything else. Clint watched her as she wrapped her hand around their mark's biceps, squeezing affectionately as she _giggled_ at whatever he said. Clint's fingers flexed instinctively around his drink.

His undercover persona was not a jealous man. Paul Sanderson was a rich entrepreneur with a shady business and even shadier connections, and his wife was more of a trophy than a partner. Paul Sanderson drank dry martinis like he was James Bond while he watched his wife flirt with other men as if it were nothing; Sarah Sanderson's smiles and fluttering lashes were a means to an end like any other in his arsenal. Paul Sanderson had come to the gala for business, his wife in tow to sweeten the deal. And sweeten the deal she did, with her seductive smiles and bright eyes, the rosy hue that colored her pale skin as she made herself blush over stupid jokes and wandering touches. Clint's eyes narrowed against his will as he saw the other man's fingers flutter along her spine before his large hand settled at Natasha's exposed lower back.

His persona wasn't the possessive type; Clint was learning that _he,_ on the other hand, very much _was_ , which made no sense at all considering that Natasha was his partner, his _work_ partner, and that he had no business feeling possessive over someone he had no right to call his own.

The show was getting less and less enjoyable by the minute.

The man bent his head to whisper something in Natasha's ear, and she tilted her head, her eyes finding Clint's in the crowd. There was a warning in the green, laced with confusion as she took his strained features in. Clint forced himself to relax, schooling his frown and clutching fingers into a casual stance as he walked over to them.

"Darling," he said as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. Natasha leaned into it a little heavily, pretending to be a little tipsy. Clint wrapped his arm around her to steady her, his hand replacing the other man's easily as his fingers curled at her hip and squeezed. He extended a hand to their mark with an easy grin. "Paul Sanderson."

There was a flicker of recognition in the other man's eyes as Clint dropped the name of the carefully crafted undercover persona he'd been building for over two months. "Alec Stevens," the man replied as he shook Clint's hand. His gaze landed on Natasha again. "Your lovely wife did not mention her last name, or else I would have charmed a meeting with you out of her," he said smoothly. "I've been meaning to arrange a meeting."

Clint gave him an approving, almost indulgent smile, like a father would with a particularly bright child. Natasha leaned in closer, her chin almost resting against his chest, and Clint had to remind himself that _Paul_ would see no evil about his lovely _Sarah_ being charmed by other men despite how much _he_ wanted to throttle the other man.

Her eyes met his again, hooded and dazed as she gave him a slow smile, sweet and coy, and for a moment Clint forgot about their undercover op, their target, and the pretense. For a moment all he saw was the playful pout of her lips, the gleam in her eyes, and how had he never noticed how enticing the smell of her perfume was before? Or was it her skin? He could taste it on his tongue as he inhaled, the scent and the feel of her running in his bloodstream, and this was work, _work_ , _work_ , Clint repeated to himself like a mantra as Alec Stevens engaged him in conversation and Natasha resumed playing her part like a pro. The contact was made, their mark's interest aroused as they arranged an appointment for later that week, something that was mostly due to Hydra people being eager bastards more than Clint's undercover skills.

Natasha's dress probably accounted for fifty percent of that, too. _Fuck him_.

Clint and Natasha left the gala hours later with everything they needed. Back at their hotel room, Natasha flopped on the king-sized bed and kicked her heels off at the same time as she reached for the pins in her hair and let it fall in waves around her shoulders. Clint _wasn't_ mesmerized by that sight _at all_. She ran a hand through her hair, massaging her scalp. "Next time _you_ doll up, Barton," she told him in faux-resentment, like he was responsible for her good looks and men's weakness for beautiful women.

Hell, it wasn't like he could even be held responsible for his _own_ weakness for her. He'd known Natasha was beautiful since the first moment Fury showed him a picture of her, back in a classified folder that he'd slid across the table for Clint to study before he'd ordered him to take care of her.

He'd taken care of her, all right, though not in the way Fury had intended. Three years later and she was just as beautiful as the first time he had laid eyes on her from his position on a rooftop, arrow trained on her; the sentimental side of him, the one Natasha would tease him mercilessly for if she knew about it, thought she looked even more beautiful now that the smiles he drew from her were genuine.

She was smiling up at him now, a small, curious smile, her head tilted to the side as she leaned back on her hands, studying him. He tugged at the sleeves of his suit jacket like the fabric was suffocating him. He felt ridiculous in a tux, as if he were a kid trying on his father's clothes, everything felt too tight and too big at once; he longed for the feel of his stealth suit, his leather gloves. Clint loosened his tie, undid the top three buttons of his shirt and his cufflinks, Natasha's eyes following his every move.

"I won't lie, you do clean up nice," she said in that matter-of-fact tone she had about her. She was unabashed in the way she let her eyes roam over his shape, and in showing her appreciation. "I could get used to these missions if they weren't so boring."

Clint chuckled. "Too much schmoozing, not enough action. I've forgotten the feel of my bow."

"Thank God for guns," Natasha laughed, and then she hiked up the skirt of her dress to show off her thigh where her Glock was strapped in a holster. She unfastened it, slipped the gun in the top drawer of the nightstand by her side of the bed.

Clint couldn't look away from the slice of upper thigh she'd uncovered. He knew how her thighs felt wrapped around him when she beat him in the gym, trapping him there where she could just snap his neck with the sheer strength of her muscles if she wanted to. Now he wondered what it would be like, to run his hands up and down her bare legs, to feel the quiver in her thighs as he aimed higher and higher...

"Clint."

His eyes snapped up and found Natasha looking right back at him with the same kind of intense focus he was directing at her. Her smile was gone; her eyes were wide, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. She looked unsure and certain at the same time, her dangling feet touching the floor, ready to leap.

He needed some goddamn air or he was going to take her on that leap of faith, catch her and never let go.

"I should probably give Coulson an update," he finally replied, his throat closing around the words. Natasha's feet stilled on the carpeted floor. He pretended not to notice as he laid his guns on the desk.

"It's two in the morning, we can call him tomorrow," she said softly, her voice nothing but a whisper in the heavy, constricting air between them. It was nothing like her seductive voice, the siren call she used for targets; she sounded husky and raw and _real_. "Come to bed, Clint."

They'd been holed up for four days in an old cabin in the mountains, once, sharing a single sleeping bag, waiting for extraction. Natasha had curled around him, huddling for warmth, arms and legs wrapped around him; they'd been so close, sharing the same breath, and yet Clint felt it paled in comparison to the heat that overwhelmed him _now_ as she looked at him with that spark in her eyes. They'd shared a bed countless of times; gone undercover as a couple just as many times. They'd kissed, made out, pretended to have sex to cause a distraction; he'd seen her in a lot less clothes, in sexier outfits. Why it struck him more tonight, Clint didn't know; he'd managed to refrain from acting on these fantasies about her for _three_ goddamn _years_ \- why couldn't he _stop_ now?

And why was she looking at him the same way? This was a recipe for disaster. He'd gone down that road with Bobbi before, and the whole mess had blown up his face, just like the door of their old apartment in Bed-Stuy that Bobbi had slammed behind her. They'd been great until they weren't anymore, and it had fucking _hurt_. Bobbi was gone, Barney was gone, everybody just left; he'd be an idiot to risk that with Natasha.

"I'm right here, you know," Natasha broke into his thoughts.

"What?" he asked, averting his eyes. He went to the bar cabinet and busied himself with fixing himself a drink so he wouldn't have to look at her in that moment, when his heart was up his throat and sleeve, stupid and obvious for the world to see.

She was beside him before he knew it, slipping the glass from his hand and taking a long gulp, her eyes still trained on his. Clint watched in rapt fascination as the amber liquid swirled in the glass, his jaw tensing when her tongue darted out to the corner of her mouth to catch a drop. Natasha was the very embodiment of every man's fantasies, a fact that was becoming extremely hard to ignore when she licked her lips and stared at him, standing only a few inches from him.

He took the glass from her, ignoring the way her eyes narrowed at him. "You were looking at me as if I were going to disappear," she explained at last. "Just like you used to, back...well, way back when." She paused with a shrug. The first few months after he'd made a different call and brought her back with him to S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha had looked ready to run away all the time. Clint had watched her like a hawk, ready to catch her.

They'd never discussed that time before; nor acknowledged the wariness, the fear, or the tension between them, the unsaid things, the lingering looks, the _want_.

Natasha reached out a hand to him, her fingers grazing his chest. Her hand was so warm, it almost felt like she was branding his skin. "But I'm not, okay?" she went on, her fingers closing around the fabric of his shirt. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know that," he answered too defensively.

Natasha sighed. "No, you don't." And before he could say anything else, she tugged at his tie and went on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to his.

Intense as she was, Clint had always expected her to kiss like she waded in battle; with determination, passion, and no room for doubt. But Natasha's lips were soft against his, gentle, almost hesitant; her fingers were feather-light as they fluttered against his chest; her touch was barely there but he felt it _everywhere_ , in the tips of his fingers and toes and deep in his bones, and he melted around her as much as she melted around him, his hands coming up to cup her face, thumbs stroking at her jaw and fingers splaying at the nape of her neck, in her hair, and her lips coaxed his into opening, and  -

he drew back, letting his hands fall to her shoulders, feeling drunk on the feel of her lips and the sight of her wide green eyes staring back at him with a spark that went beyond sheer lust, and something else, too, something that suspiciously looked like hurt. "Tasha." He cupped his hands around her shoulders - to keep her at arm's length, to stop her from running, because he couldn't let go, didn't know how to - and he tried to be the bigger man here, to tell her that this was a bad idea, a mistake, that they couldn't ruin what was and would always be the best partnership he'd ever had with something as volatile and dangerous as sex. That he'd been burned before, and that she deserved to find someone she wasn't indebted to, and Clint had a dozen good, reasonable arguments, and he knew better, but -

reason had _nothing_ to do with what he felt for her, what he'd felt for a while now, nothing to do with the way his heart swelled and constricted sometimes, just looking at her; reason or logic couldn't simplify their relationship to an equation of trust and skills minus feelings because he _did_ feel, he felt _everything_ for her, and his head was spinning with all his contradictions, so he threw caution to the wind, told his brain to go fuck off, and he reached for Natasha again.

She kissed him harder this time, _be sure_ and _don't stop_ and _we're good_ , her hands grabbing at his hair and pulling, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip, and Clint backed her into the bar cabinet, smashing his glass to the floor, the nearest wall, knocking a lamp on their way to the bed as she all but ripped at his shirt, buttons flying off, his hands running down the expanse of her bare back as hers explored his chest, making him hiss and groan as they lowered down his abs, to his belt buckle. Clint hit the bed with the back of his knees and Natasha pushed him down, her gentleness, her almost shyness, completely gone; she was the Natasha he knew from the field, pistols drawn and knives out, her kiss-swollen mouth as red as her hair and her dress, and how had he gone three years without touching her like this, without tasting her mouth, her skin?

"Tasha," he groaned her name when she straddled him and pinned his hands over his head, her breasts grazing agonizingly against his bare chest as she leaned down, her hair falling in waves around his, her nose brushing his as she kissed him slow and dirty; he moaned and she grinned into the kiss, smug and jubilant at his reaction to her, at the feel of his erection pressing against her, the roll of her own hips making him strain against her hold. "You -"

She dropped a path of kisses down his neck, reaching a spot just below his ear that she nipped, just the flash of teeth, and Clint threw his head back, his eyes closing on their own. Natasha didn't stop there; her mouth blazed a trail down his throat, her tongue dipping in the hollow there, open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder, to the still raw scar on his chest from their last assignment in Rio. It was torturously slow; she was making him pay for his momentary hesitation and he was going to explode if he didn't get to touch her soon, but damn, what a way to go.

He could escape her hold, perhaps not as easily as he would like everyone else to believe, but he _could_ \- but there was something right about letting Natasha pick the pace. With every kiss he pushed the memory of her asking _do you want to sleep with me?_ the night he should have taken her out, like it was the only explanation for why he'd spared her, a token of gratitude she would have granted with a bored tone and a curious expression on her face. With every pant coming from her he forgot about his doubts, his insecurities over the why and the what, why now, why not, what the hell.

"You don't know how long I've waited for you to stop being an idiot," she rasped against his ear, biting the lobe not so gently.

Clint tilted his face to her in surprise. "Wait, what?" He'd thought he was the only one thinking... He caught her lips, and felt Natasha's fingers loosen around his wrists; she pushed off him and sat down on her heels, and she looked glorious there on top of him. "Since when?"

He ran his hands up and down her thighs, her hips, bunching the skirt of her dress in his fists. Touching her like this felt fucking _amazing_. Natasha's hands stroked his chest, his sides; her fingers making quick work of his belt, unfastening his pants. "Budapest," she replied, palming him though his clothing.

He bucked into her hand. "Budapest?" Clint said in a hoarse voice. "I tried to _kill_ you -"

"Not that exact moment," Natasha snorted. "Back at the safe house. You were in the shower and I thought about killing you and -"

"And they say romance is dead. Weirdo," he said affectionately, sitting up and reaching for her, his hand cupping her jaw as he kissed her, slow and sweet. Clint splayed his hand low at her back, bringing her closer, as he dropped his other hand to her shoulder, his fingers slipping beneath the strap of her dress. He kissed the soft skin there and felt Natasha inhale sharply; he bent his head lower, mouthed at the top of her cleavage as he lowered her dress. "And then?" he asked, looking up at her.

Natasha glared at him, her fingers a little rough in his hair as she pushed his head lower. "And then you came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your waist, and I thought you were an idiot -" She moaned as his lips closed around her nipple, her nails digging in his scalp. "You _were_. You were just there, vulnerable, and..." She braced herself with one hand cupped around his shoulder, the other drifting down his stomach. "And then I saw those abs."

Clint chuckled against her breast, which made Natasha moan again. He swirled his tongue around her nipple and pushed her dress to her hips, his hands roaming over her warm skin, feeling the rise and fall of her stomach against his hand. "Yours aren't too bad, either," he murmured against her sternum, his lips peppering kisses down her stomach as he laid her back on the mattress, her head dangling off the bed as he rearranged himself between her legs. "Remember our first training session in the gym?" He scraped his teeth at her navel, then soothed his tongue over the scarred skin near her hipbone. "You did that thing where you choked me with your thighs. I almost came in my pants right there."

Natasha laughed, low and husky, huskier and breathless as he reached her panties and licked at her. "You...you liked that?" she said on a broken sigh. "I mean, it could be easily arranged." She bent her knee and draped her leg over his shoulder, her thigh covering his ear. Braced on her elbows, Natasha grinned down at him. "You okay down there, Barton?"

Clint gave her thigh a swat of his hand, bit at the sensitive skin of her inner skin. "Deaf guy, remember?" She spread her legs a bit, giving him more room, and he rewarded her with another broad lick of his tongue. Her panties were soaking through, and Clint couldn't help rubbing against the mattress, seeking friction. "Are we really doing this?" he sought her confirmation that this _wasn't_ a dream, though he was ninety percent sure it wasn't.

Never in his wildest dreams had he dared to imagine what she would taste like.

Natasha grabbed at him, one hand clutching at his hair, the other tugging his arm, pulling him up until he was lying flat above her, probably crushing her. When he tried to brace himself on his arms she made a grab for him again, holding him there with her hands cupping his face and her knees bracketing his hips. "I say we have three days until our meeting, and nowhere to be until then."

She held his gaze, willing him to argue with her, ready to counter him with her lips and her hands and fuck, Clint couldn't find a reason why he'd do such a thing. He kissed her, couldn't imagine ever getting tired of kissing her, and as his hand drifted down her body, his fingers slipping under the hem of her panties, he said, "You're wearing too many clothes."

"You're the one with pants still on," she hummed, her back arching slightly as he slid a finger inside her. Her brow furrowed and though Clint would never, _ever_ , say it, Natasha looked adorable like this; her neck stretched out as her head dangled even further off the bed, her hooded eyes half-closed, tiny pants escaping her as he stroked her.

He took his time figuring out what she liked, first with his fingers, a thumb latched to her clit, rubbing fast, tiny circles, then with his tongue, Natasha issuing commands and threats in Russian that he go harder and faster, that he dare not fucking stop as if he ever wanted to do that. She was writhing beneath him, her legs flexing around him, her hands grabbing him, pulling him up for a kiss, pushing him back down her body; her feet sliding along his back, pushing at the waistband of his pants; she was pushy and bossy and pliant and _Natasha_ , losing herself in him as he was losing himself in her, and -

her orgasm rippled through them both, her voice getting higher and slightly slurred as she spoke his name and gasped on it, her chest heaving as she trembled. Clint kept lapping at her through it, a soothing hand stroking her side as she slowly came back to herself. He swirled his tongue around her clit, gently sucking on it until she dug her heel in his back and slapped her hand against the bed.

"Time out?" he chuckled, licking his lips and groaning at the feel of her. Natasha only glared at him half-heartedly, the threat in her eyes immensely diminished by the lopsided, lazy grin stretching her lips she gave him as he kissed his way up her body. Roughly she tipped his chin up and kissed him hard, chasing her taste on his tongue, and Clint felt himself grow harder if that was even possible. His pants felt infinitely tight, and he rocked into her, desperate to be inside her.

She slowed down, pecked his lips once, twice, softly, before she pushed him off of her so he laid on his back beside her as she rolled to her side, watching him with glazed, hungry eyes. "You're way too good at this," she said, still breathless.

Clint tried to reach for her but she stopped him with a hand to his chest, and a leg nudging between his, her thigh rubbing against his erection. He groaned, tangled his hand in her hair. "Is - is that a complaint?"

"No. Just a general thank you to the universe and the ladies that came before." Her eyes gleamed with mischief as he felt her hand push down his pants and underwear and wrap around his cock. "But _I'm_ better."

And she proved just that, stroking him while she nipped at his chin, sucked his lower lip into her mouth and slid her tongue across it, the wet heat of her kiss snaking down his spine and coiling low in his belly. He thrust in her hand, canting his hips up and panting like a goddamn teen. He tried to warn her but Natasha kissed him, flicking her tongue against the roof of his mouth, and the heat flared inside him, and he needed to see her, touch her, _feel her_.

He tugged at her dress, cupped a breast and flicking at her nipple with his thumbnail, and she let him go for all but a second, just enough time to peel the dress and throw it carelessly to the floor. Then she was on him, pushing his pants completely down and off, and Clint groaned in relief, until he felt her lips wrap around his cock and relief turned into a scream as he bucked off the mattress. " _Natasha_ ," he stretched her name brokenly, weakly lifting on his elbow as he curled his free hand at the nape of her neck. "Hair-trigger situation down there, Nat."

She let him go with an audible pop, a wolfish grin curling at her lips. "What are you, seventeen?" she teased him, her warm breath making his cock twitch.

He rolled his eyes. "Do I _look_ fucking _seventeen_ to you?" he growled.

She had the good grace not to laugh. "No." She licked at him from base to tip, swirling her tongue there, and his fingers clenched around the sheets in fists. Her hand wrapped around his cock and stroked him slowly; his breath left him in a shuddering exhale. He tried to rise up and catch the back of her head with a hand, to pull her up for a kiss, but she shook off his greedy kisses with a low chuckle and an affectionate nip of his fingers before she slid her mouth down his length.

"Fuck, Tasha," he rasped, voice all gravel and hoarse, wiping a hand over his eyes at the sight of her hollowed cheeks, the feel of her humming against him. "Fuck me."

Natasha grinned and flicked her tongue over his slit before pulling off. " _Later_. Don't be a spoilsport. Three days, remember?"

He caught her chin, stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. "There _won't_ be three days if you don't stop."

"Says the eighty year-old man," Natasha rolled her eyes.

He grabbed under her arm, pulled her up on top of him. "Seventeen, eighty," he whined grumpily, kissing her roughly, "your mouth is just a menace, it's not my goddamn fault."

She grinned against his mouth - had he ever seen her smile so much? - and patted his head as if he were a puppy. "I like you like this," she said, her hand stroking his jaw, her thumb wiping at the furrow between his brown.

"Like what?" he moaned at her touch, "Trashing like a fish out of water?"

She curled her hand at his neck, feeling the strain and his blood pumping there. " _Impatient_ ," Natasha whispered. "I've seen you crouched on a rooftop for seven hours without even flinching, and a little head is making you lose your mind. I like it."

Clint snorted. "A little head, she calls it," he laughed, running a hand down her spine, swatting lightly at her ass. She narrowed her eyes at him and he did it again, enjoying the flush of her skin, the fake irritation in her eyes. "Are we really doing this?" he asked again.

Natasha wrapped her knee around his hip, brushing his cock with the apex of her thighs, her wetness coating him as he thrust involuntarily. " _Yes_ ," she moaned, her eyes closing as she surged for a kiss, groaning in his mouth as she rubbed herself against him. She pulled back with a frustrated sigh, and rolled to her back at his side. "Condoms in the bathroom. Go fetch," she ordered, looking goddamn feral and shaken-giddy at the same time, sprawled beside him, flaming hair tousled against the whitest of sheets, infectious smile tugging at her lips.

Seventeen year-old Clint mentally high-fived him.

" _Go fetch_ ," he muttered, shaking his head, though he still got up and all but dashed for the bathroom, searching through Natasha's bag and hearing her laugh behind him, saying something in Russian that sounded like _American dog_ or something.

He came back to the bedroom with the condom on, and she pouted. Natasha Romanoff was _pouting_ at him, he was so fucking lucky. "I wanted to do that."

He crawled on top of her, eagerly nuzzling at her breasts before he kissed her as he set himself between her legs. "You're going to destroy me if you touch me," he chuckled, dragging a finger along her slit, feeling the renewed wetness there. Clint choked on a moan.

"Part of the big, evil, commie plan," she said on a loud exhale as he pushed in. Her eyes closed and he kissed her lids, his nose bumping hers, lips trailing her temple as he stilled.

This moment was three years in the making, three years of dreaming about it, of watching her from a distance, wanting her, denying himself; three years of working together, trusting her with his life despite all the warning bells inside his head, coming from Fury, everybody back at the agency; three years of getting to know her, the _real her_ , the one she didn't know herself from years of being made and unmade. Three years all leading up to this, her arms wrapped around his, fingers tangled in his hair and nails digging at his hips, urging him on; knees tightening around him, heel digging in his calf, her lips latched to his neck, her panting in his ear.

She clutched at his shoulders, hiking a knee up his hip the next time he rocked into her, pressing her heel against his leg, arching herself into him, and Clint wrapped an arm behind her, holding her to him. He couldn't hold his weight above her like this; he leaned on his elbow, getting closer, feeling the rise of her belly against his, as he went slower, deeper, shallow thrusts as she held onto him tighter. Clint dropped his forehead to hers, peppering her face with kisses. He knew Natasha could be soft - that her hands, calloused from all the blood she'd shed, just like his, could soothe and heal, she'd taken care of him after a mission gone wrong, patched him up, half-carried him through hell a hundred times. But it felt different now; she was soft and sweet, his name a prayer and a plea on her tongue, and if this was a mistake it was his goddamn favorite.

Her breathing quickened all of a sudden, her lips falling open as her fingers tightened in his hair, and he wanted to slow things down, savor the moment, but Natasha clutched at his hips, rocking into him faster, and they had three days, they could go slow next time -

she came with a cry of his name and a litany of swear words in Russian, and he was a goner after that, or maybe he'd been a goner all along, he didn't care much about figuring that one out.

 

* * *

 

It was the sun streaming through the windows that woke him up, followed by the strong smell of coffee and butter. Clint blinked, rubbing at his tired eyes with his hands.

Natasha was curled up in an armchair, wearing the shirt he'd worn the night before, tearing at her croissant while she talked over the phone in a low voice. "Everything went according to plan, sir," she was saying, "Barton and I arranged a meeting for Thursday. We should meet the buyer then." She spotted him awake and winked at him. "Barton's in the hotel gym, yeah," she added, "you know him, army guy, old habits die hard. We'll send a full report later."

She hung up, and Clint rose an eyebrow at her. "I'm hitting the gym, uh?" he chuckled. "Army guy? You do know I was discharged from the army, right?"

Natasha laughed, rising from the armchair to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, handing him a cup of coffee. "You're an early bird, and you've got to work on these abs, anyway. I wasn't going to tell Coulson you were still snoring because you've been thoroughly fucked."

Clint almost spilled his coffee. Natasha was soft and sweet and bossy and dirty, and so many things, and he loved it all. He put his mug down on the nightstand and reached for her, cupping her cheeks with his hands and kissing her. Natasha crawled up his lap, deepening the kiss, her hands pushing his shoulders down until he laid back against his pillow and she was hovering above him.

"Here we meet again," Clint chuckled, his hands going to her hips, holding her there. He met her eyes, bright and green and beautiful, and this wasn't a mistake, was it, they could do this. "We're not going to let this compromise us, right?" he asked anyway. He needed her to be sure, as sure as she'd been last night, so he could be sure, too.

Natasha pursed her lips, fixing him with her gaze. "Do you trust me?" she asked simply.

The answer came instantly. "Of course I do," Clint said, absolute. There was a shortage of good things in his life, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. fell tomorrow, Natasha and Coulson were the two only people he would ever trust with his life.

She smiled at him, small, soft. "I trust you, too. I don't see how a few orgasms are going to change that."

She made it so simple, and perhaps things didn't have to be so hard all the time. He slipped his hand beneath her shirt, his thumb brushing along her hipbone, and she shuddered. "A few orgasms, uh? Can't do better than that?" he challenged her.

Natasha bit at his bottom lip, before she straightened, sitting up on him. The look she gave him then was positively hungry. "Well, now that you mention it, I figured I might just try and teach you that thigh choke-hold you were so interested in," she breathed, and swung one knee around his head, poising herself above his mouth as she steadied herself with a hand against the headboard.

She was going to be the death of him, but what a goddamn way to go.

 

* * *

 

"Nice job," Coulson congratulated them a week later, both their reports in hand and five Hydra agents in jail. "That was a good one."

"Yeah, I thought we could print some t-shirts or something," Clint suggested, "like _STRIKE Team Delta does it better_ , give them out at the Academy next time we go."

Natasha nodded her head. "To top-marks specialists only. Rumlow's gonna love it, he's got his eye on that Ward kid for his own team, but our t-shirts will really seal the deal."

Coulson rolled his eyes. "I'll let you two pitch that idea to Director Fury." He waved his hand at the door. "Go on, take a few days off. Your next assignment starts next week."

"Where to?" Clint asked as he stood.

"Lugano," Coulson said. "Bad people always seem to live in the most beautiful places, don't they?" he mused. He picked up two folders and handed them to them. "Here, you've got all the details. You'll go through Wardrobe, they've got some cocktail dresses for you Natasha."

Clint grinned at her as they left Coulson's office.

 

* * *

 

 

_the end_

 

 


End file.
